The Shadow of Your Smile
by Spades
Summary: He envisioned the scene: John would punch him, John would yell at him, John would hug him. He was wrong on all fronts. He'll now have to find a way to survive the aftermath of his choices. But can he? -Trigger Warnings
1. Chapter 1

Mycroft stared at the sheet draped body atop the cold autopsy table. The florescent lights hummed softly above him, the only other sound was the soft sobs coming from Doctor Molly Hooper a few feet behind him. Never before had Mycroft Holmes ever felt so powerless. It didn't work as it was meant to. They thought it was an ironclad plan. Every variable was taken into account. How did they get it so wrong? Mycroft's right hand flexed around the grip of his cane in regular pulses. The building pain in the tendons kept him from losing control. Never had their judgment failed so badly.

"What are we going to do, Mycroft?" Molly asked softly, her voice thick with tears and sorrow.

Mycroft opened his mouth to answer but nothing emerged. Sensing a deep tremor of grief run up his spine, he swallowed tightly and made another attempt.

"I'm not sure, Doctor Hooper. I wish I had something else to tell you but...I'm not sure."

"I'm not...I ca-...I can't do the autopsy. Not on him," she whispered and Mycroft glanced away from the body for the first time to look at her.

Her hair was still pulled back in a ponytail but it was messy. Pieces trailed down her neck and curled around her ears. Some of the strands hopelessly knotted from her constantly messing with it. Her eyes were red and the lids were puffy from her tears. Her bottom lip trembled slightly but she forced herself to hold back the sobs. Mycroft turned back to the table and slowly sighed.

"I don't believe an autopsy is necessary in this case. We know what the cause of death was."

Memories attacked Mycroft Holmes again and he released a single shuddering breath, his only outward reaction. This was going to change everything. Building up his mental walls, Mycroft steeled his spine and moved forward.

"Sign the death certificate and release the body to me. I'll take care of everything from here."

Mycroft turned away from the table and approached Doctor Hooper. Understanding social norms didn't help him perform them, but in this case he knew it was required. He reached out and gently touched Molly's elbow to turn her tear stained gaze to him.

"Thank you for everything, Molly."

Molly's lip quiver was more pronounced now and she jerkily nodded before turning to the desk where she kept the death certificates. Mycroft glanced once more at the table and walked towards the morgue doors.

There were things to be seen to.

He left the warm body of Doctor Molly Hooper behind to deal with the cold body of the former Doctor John Hamish Watson.

(!)(!)(!)

Two Years, Five Months Later

Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders until the familiar weight of the Belstaff settled correctly. Almost two and a half years he had been away, and now it was finally time to come home. Mycroft stood silently by the wall watching the younger Holmes. He seemed tense but Sherlock attributed that to the red tape he'd have to go through bringing his little brother back from the dead.

"I think I'll surprise John. He'll be delighted," Sherlock said as he ruffled his hair, not seeing Mycroft's grimace.

"You think so?"

"Mm, pop into Baker Street and - Who knows? - jump out of a cake."

"He isn't there anymore," Mycroft replied softly as a nearby door opened.

Mycroft looked at the agent and received a small nod. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in question.

"John isn't at Baker Street? Where is he then?"

"Come, Sherlock. I'll take you to John," Mycroft said and turned to lead the way from the building to the awaiting car.

There was a slight bounce in Sherlock's step that hadn't been there before. The city of London spread out in front of him, he was finally home. Slipping into the town car, Sherlock didn't even say anything snide to Mycroft. He couldn't bring himself to bother, he was going to see John. They were going to start taking cases again and annoying Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson would make tea and scones and protest that she wasn't their housekeeper and all would be right in the world. He watched the city fly by as they flowed in and out of traffic. Mycroft frequently glanced at his mobile and would occasionally purse his lips. Must be some war that wasn't going to plan. Sherlock relaxed back in the seat and let his eyes close as the sounds of London streamed past him. Angelo's. John and he would go to Angelo's. Well after John finished yelling at him; then they would go to Angelo's. Angelo would bring a candle, John would blush, and Sherlock would smirk. Yes, Sherlock loved John. John was his best friend. They always had each other's back.

The town car slowed and took a turn before slowly accelerating. Lifting his head, Sherlock smiled as he turned to look out the window. What sort of place did John move to? The view that greeted his gaze startled him. Silent headstones stuttered past the window. A sign eased by saying Kensal Green Cemetery. This was where Sherlock's fake headstone was placed. Sherlock's head snapped around to look at his brother in question.

"Mycroft?"

The car slowed to a stop and without speaking, the elder Holmes opened the door and stepped out. He left the door open behind him, knowing Sherlock would follow. In a few moments he did and hurried after Mycroft. From his position behind Mycroft, Sherlock could only see the obsidian tombstone with the white lettering. Mycroft stopped to let Sherlock catch up and took a deep breath before stepping aside. Next to the fake headstone stood another, the same size but grey with black lettering. The words burned into Sherlock's brain but he kept reading them, hoping they would change. John Hamish Watson - A Doctor, A Captain, A Friend, A Brother - If a man has not discovered something that he will die for, he isn't fit to live.~Martin Luther King, Jr. Sherlock swallowed painfully and a strained giggle escaped.

"Did someone target John? Did you have to fake his death as well? Where is he hiding, Mycroft?"

No. Surely the grief on Mycroft's face couldn't be real. He had to be faking it. This had to be a joke. A cruel, horrifyingly cruel joke. Mycroft was never this savage.

"Mycroft?"

"However much I wish it. This is not fake, Sherlock."

Sherlock had never heard his brother's voice sound like that. So broken.

"No. No, you're lying. Where do you have him hidden? He must be safe. He has to be safe," Sherlock pleaded as he slowly backed away from the headstone.

The date blurred before him. His vision hindered by the tears that threatened to fall. He couldn't believe this. Six days after his fall. Six days and John...faked his death for some reason. There must be a reason. His chest started to tighten and his heartbeat was echoing in his ears. This was wrong. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

"Mycr-"

"The cyclist that was tasked with clipping John to disorient him. The crowds made it more challenging than he anticipated, and when he struck Doctor Watson, it was much harder than intended. He struck his head when he fell. Five days later he was found in an alley," Mycroft said quietly, as if he was reading off a grain report from a second world country.

"'He was found in an alley'? Wha-?"

"After your...'death'. He lashed out at everyone. The tabloids were dragging your name through the mud...his as well for being associated with you. He disappeared into the city. Avoided the cameras."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out except an almost silent whimper. His legs trembled again and he pressed a hand to his chest. He didn't want to hear what Mycroft had to say next. It couldn't be. Please, no Sherlock begged; begged for all he was worth.

"A subacute subdural hematoma. By the time he was found and delivered to the hospital it was already too late. He passed away."

An inhuman scream ripped from Sherlock's lips as his mind imploded. Pain shot up his thighs from his knees impacting the soil. Subdural hematoma. Slow bleed into the brain. Took six days to die. Five of which were spent wandering alone around the city, when just forty-eight hours previously he had been running with Sherlock. John had bled to death slowly...in an alley...alone...while Sherlock had been in Istanbul. In Istanbul, hale and hearty, picturing John back at Baker Street having a cup of tea with Mrs. Hudson, or having a pint with Lestrade. He couldn't breath. The trembling wouldn't stop. He dug his fingers into the dirt and felt the coolness from the grass. The warmth from the soil, warmed by the sun. The soil which covered the coffin. The coffin for John. A disgusting feeling churned inside him and he lunged to the side to retch. He crawled while he heaved, trying to get away. He couldn't. The pictures in his head played on repeat, seeing what Mycroft had told him. The curse of a powerful imagination. Crushing sobs escaped from him. Dropping his torso, he pressed his forehead into the grass and beat his fist against the ground. How had he gotten it so wrong?

Hands gently touched his back and a soft hand petted his hair. Rolling his head, he looked to the side and saw a set of knees not belonging to Mycroft. Words started to reach him through the fog of anguish. A soft voice calling his name. He lifted his head just enough to see who would dare intrude on his grief. Molly's delicate face with twin tracks of tears looked down at him. A small tendril of hope curled in his chest.

Rising on his knees, he grabbed Molly's biceps and shook her. "Tell me the truth, Molly. Please! Please tell me Mycroft is lying."

Her lips trembled as fresh tears fell and she shook her head. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so, so sorry but it's the truth. John is dead."

Those words destroyed him.

Molly clasped his head to her bosom as he sobbed. Mycroft draped himself over Sherlock's back and held tightly for any comfort his presence could provide. Sherlock couldn't ever remember grieving this much for anything. But then again, he never had anything so precious and valuable. He felt the sting of a needle but he didn't care. Couldn't care anymore. His thoughts and sobs slowed and hands gently tilted him to the side until he was curled in fetal position on the grass. Molly knelt next to his head and carefully wiped away the streams of tears. Sounds and sensations started to fade again, this time chemically caused. He slowly blinked as his vision started to narrow on Molly's face. She cupped his cheek and brushed her thumb over his damp cheekbone.

"Rest, Sherlock. Just rest."

He didn't want to rest. He didn't want that. He only wanted… "John."

The murmured name followed him into the chemically induced darkness.

(!)(!)(!)

Sherlock blinked awake and his gaze focused on the framed Periodic Table hanging on the wall of his bedroom. He was back at Baker Street...without John. A light blanket was tucked around him and a quick self inspection indicated he was still dressed except for his shoes. Sensing another body in the room with him, he didn't move from his position but continued staring at the Periodic Table.

"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you bring me back?"

Mycroft sighed. "You were already so intent on tracking down the web. To try and bring you in just to find John? At the time, I felt it wasn't needed. I imagined John would be found eventually, hungover or still drunk. You coming back would have disrupted everything we had put in motion to protect you. To protect everyone else."

It was silent for a moment as Sherlock absorbed the words. Growing tired of laying in bed, he slowly pushed himself up and swung his legs out from under the blanket. Pushing the covering aside, he stared at the floor between his sock clad feet. The flat was silent except for the sounds from Baker Street.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

Mycroft shifted in the seat but Sherlock didn't turn and look. "Molly is speaking to her. Informing her of your...resurrection."

Sherlock flexed his toes and dug them into the rug.

"She's not going to be happy with me," Sherlock muttered and slowly stood to walk to the window.

The view hadn't changed much since he last looked out this window. A few plants were taller, pruned or just missing. Tucking one hand into his trouser pocket, he reached out his free hand and traced a finger down the glass pane, feeling the coolness seep into his skin. He felt lost. For almost two and a half years he had a path, a plan, and he followed it. Followed it religiously. Knowing exactly what awaited him at the end. But now...his prize, his goal was...gone. He felt unmoored.

"Talk to me, Sherlock. Please."

He turned and looked at Mycroft. His brother looked rough. His suit was wrinkled and there were grass stains on his knees. His hair was no longer neatly coiffed and the tie was askew. Normally Sherlock would say something cutting but he just didn't have it in him. He turned back to the window and tapped his finger against the pane.

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. You've never spoken more true, Mycroft. I gambled and lost. Risk versus gain and I overplayed my hand." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders in what he hoped was a dismissive gesture.

The chair made noise again and a few moments later he felt a hand gently rest on his upper back. "And I have never been more wrong. What you and John had...was what made up the stories Mummy and Pop told us as kids. Thick as thieves. Brothers in arms. Blood brothers. However you want to phrase it. You made each other into better men."

Sherlock either choked on a laugh or a sob, he wasn't sure. He didn't want to know which it was.

"John made me better. I...I didn't do anything for him except bring him grief. He was the good man between us," Sherlock said softly and dropped his arm back to his side.

He turned away from Mycroft and felt the hand slip off his back. "I'm going to take a shower before seeing Mrs. Hudson. I'll be out shortly."

Mechanically, he collected a fresh set of clothes and enclosed himself in the lavatory. Spinning on the dials, he stripped while waiting for the water to heat up. When he could see the steam billowing from the top of the shower, he stepped under the pounding spray and leaned against the wall. John was dead. He needed to come to terms with that concept. He couldn't keep expecting to see John come walking through the door and start making tea. Or sitting in his chair. Or fussing at Sherlock about some experiment in progress in the kitchen. He found himself forgetting about the scene at the cemetery and thinking for a brief moment that John was coming up the steps. Or that the thump he just heard was John dropping a book. Quickly enough though, reality would intrude and remind him, not so gently, that his friend was no longer among the living.

Sighing, he reached for the shampoo. He would grieve and he would move forward. He wouldn't move on. He could never forget John and all that he had meant to him. Best he could do was just move forward and keep moving forward in increments until time passed and it perhaps got easier. He had lived and been alone before and had been fine. He could do this. Do this for John. Solve crimes for John. Save innocents and bring justice in John's memory.

Lathering the shampoo in his hair, he turned his back to the shower spray. In turning, he bumped against the wall and knocked the soap bar to the floor of the shower. Stepping back to regain his balance, his heel landed directly on the soap and his foot went out from under him. His soapy hands, scrabbling for anything to stop his fall, met only slick walls and an insubstantial shower curtain. He saw the next five seconds play out in a flash in his mind. Given his positioning in the shower, his height and rate of descent; the back of his head would strike the tub tap and crack open. Possible immediate death. He felt himself falling and closed his eyes against the anticipated collision.

A moment later he opened his eyes and blinked at the view. He was laying on the bottom of the tub, staring up at the open mouth of the tap. The back of his head was atop the drain and he could see and feel the water still pounding down on his thighs and knees. Confused, he cautiously reached up and felt along the sides and back of his head. No pain. Looking at the hand in question, he confirmed there was no blood. Vision was fine. No physical signs of concussion. Slowly sitting up, he shifted around the tap and twisted to stare at it. He head should have struck it. Again feeling the back of his head, he used both hands to explore his cranium. No injuries at all. He couldn't hear any noises indicating someone had heard him fall. No racing footsteps or pounding fists on the door. A fall like that should have created noise; Mycroft was in the flat and would have heard. The soap sat innocently by his thigh and he reach out to carefully place it back in it is holder. He cautiously stood up and rinsed the remainder of the shampoo from his hair before shutting off the water. The bathroom was silent except for the random drips from the showerhead. Shaking his head, he dried off, dressing quickly before he towel dried his hair. He could hear voices coming from the sitting room and he took a deep breath before opening the door and stepping out. The conversation came to a screeching halt and Sherlock focused on the person that shakily stood.

Mrs. Hudson looked older than he remembered with more lines around her mouth. One of her hands came up to cover her mouth as tears streamed down her cheeks. She slowly walked towards him but Sherlock wasn't going to wait. In two steps he bent and engulfed her in a tight hug. He wished Mycroft and Molly weren't here to witness the reunion but it couldn't be helped. Grief rolled up from his stomach again but he refused to let it overcome him; he needed to begin controlling it before it controlled him. Sherlock determined that he would learn to do so one way or another.

"Sherlock...Sherlock, I couldn't believe it when Molly told me. I hoped, maybe that John had gone with you. The two of you working together, but she said...she said it wasn't like that. That John was really gone...not fake gone, like you. And oh, Sherlock, you missed his funeral and didn't even know," she sobbed and clutched at his neck as he nodded jerkily.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Sorry for everything. Sorry about leaving and sorry about John. So sorry about John," he murmured, rubbing her back.

"Oh, Sherlock, it was terrible. Losing you both so quickly, John gone so soon after you. If it wasn't for Molly, Mr. Holmes and some others I don't know what I would have done."

The lead weight in Sherlock's gut felt worse the more Mrs. Hudson spoke. He murmured nonsensical words until her sobs slowed. His time away had given him time to think about emotions and...sentiment. He didn't understand the proper procedures and reactions but he realized there were generally accepted actions. Hugging, muttering general platitudes and showing similar remorse. He could do all three of those. He lost track of how long they stood there. Eventually Molly gently guided Mrs. Hudson back to her own flat to take an herbal soother. Mycroft remained in the flat with Sherlock and watched as his little brother went into the kitchen and started to make a cup of tea.

"Are you going to be alright, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked and listened to Sherlock prepare his mug.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders as he waited for the kettle to click.

"What did you do with John's stuff?" he questioned and immediately grabbed the kettle once it clicked.

Pouring the steaming water into his mug and putting the kettle back, he stood, silently watching as the water slowly turn brown. His eyes flickered around the counter top and spotted John's RAMC mug against the back splash. Reaching out, he picked it up and gently cradled it in one hand, feeling the comforting weight. Sighing, he set the mug back down and pushed it back into place.

"Doctor Watson's things were packed up but left in his room. Harriett Watson tried to get a few things but...her attention span wasn't the best at the time."

Sherlock snorted. "Meaning it was a half-arsed idea but she couldn't follow through because the drink got in her way. Did she even attend his...she attend the funeral?"

"She did. She was drunk but she was there. Mummy, Pop and myself attended. The clinic John worked at closed for several hours so the staff could attend. There was an impressive military contingent. Lestrade and half the police force," Mycroft commented and Sherlock nodded as he picked up his mug and walked to his chair.

Slowly sitting in his chair, he savored the sensation for a moment before sighing and relaxing into the leather. Sherlock felt himself wanting to look at the empty chair across from him but knew it probably wouldn't be for the best. His emotions were still too close to the surface. Both Holmes were silent as Sherlock sipped his tea. Molly called a soft goodbye from the bottom of the stairs and the sound of the door closing seemed to echo loudly in the pervading quiet. Sherlock tilted his head back and let his eyes slide shut as the mug warmed a circle on his thigh where it rested.

"I'll need to go and see Lestrade tomorrow. When are you announcing my return?"

"A press release will be issued the day after tomorrow. No conference and no interviews. We'll try to keep it quiet. I can have Detective Inspector Lestrade brought here tomorrow morning to see you," Mycroft said as he stood and straightened his clothing.

The only thing out of place on Mycroft now were the grass stains on his knees and the faint scuff marks on his shoes. Sherlock stared at the grass stains and started to remember how he got them. Cutting off that thought, he sipped his tea and swallowed.

"I'll go and see Lestrade tomorrow at his office. Best to just jump back in, right? I'm sure he has stacks of unsolved mysteries that he needs my help on," Sherlock said and set his empty mug off to the side.

Mycroft paused at the door and gripped the doorknob before looking over his shoulder at Sherlock. His little brother was staring into the cold fireplace, maybe hoping to see some answers as to what he should do. His brother had changed during his time away, Mycroft could easily see that. Coming home to the knowledge that John had been dead for years had changed him even more. There was a new tightness around his mouth and a new darkness in his eyes. Mycroft worried what that darkness might mean for the young Holmes.

"Sherlock."

Blue-gray eyes turned to look at him. "Have caution when you go to see Lestrade. Especially around his team. Lestrade thought he lost two good friends and now to have one return will be a shock. He'll think the same as Mrs. Hudson did, that John was helping you out. Discovering that you faked your death and that our actions, in turn, inadvertently caused John's real death will not be easy for him to accept. You might be struck."

Sherlock nodded before turning back to the cold fireplace.

"I'd expect no less from the good Detective Inspector," Sherlock muttered and the soft sound of the door closing behind Mycroft is his only reply.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stared up at the NSY building and felt the unease curling in his gut. He had every reason to suspect that this wasn't going to go well. Oh, well. He'd brought it on himself.

The long night had passed slowly and quietly while he sat up staring into the fireplace. Venturing to bed would only invite the recurring nightmares that started after his first few months away. And he had new material for his nightmares now. He could handle the nightmares from before, but he didn't want to try and handle nightmares centered around John. He couldn't bear to see the accusation in John's eyes. Couldn't bear to dream himself standing in that alley, staring at a still body, knowing John was bleeding slowly into his brain and not being able to help, to even move or stop it. Or imagining John stumbling around as he became disoriented, maybe even realizing what was happening to him. Knowing what was happening but not making any move to get medical help. That possibility hurt worse than anything.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock approached the doors and felt his public face take hold. Striding through the lobby, he sensed people slowing to stare as he punched the button for a lift. Thankfully there was one already on the floor and the doors slid open to admit him. Once the doors closed, he punched Lestrade's floor and took another deep breath. He stared at his reflection in the polished doors and knew to everyone that he looked the same. Looked the same as when he left. They couldn't look below the window dressings. If they looked below the clothing they would see ragged scars. They would see burns in various stages of healing. They would see he was marked and branded. If they could see his soul, they would see it was in the same condition as his body. Marked and branded by others and...by himself. By his actions and...inactions.

The doors slid open and he shook himself free from the macabre thoughts. Striding from the lift, he walked through the bullpen, sensing as all other motion in the room slowed and ceased as people stared. He kept his gaze focused on Lestrade's office and soon saw the door being opened by the very man he came to see. The shock on Lestrade's face would have been amusing at one point. Lestrade stepped back woodenly as Sherlock breezed past him, the tall figure stopping in front of his desk and turning to face him. The door slowly closed but not before Sherlock saw shocked expressions on every face he could see through the doorway.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, greetings, Detective Inspector Lestrade. It is...very good to see you again," Sherlock said, wondering if the other man knew how true his statement was.

Multiple facial expressions fought for dominance on Lestrade's face. Disbelief, doubt, fury, disbelief again, confusion, and finally...hope. Sherlock felt ill knowing he would destroy that hope.

"I knew it! I knew it! John died so shortly after you that it was odd. I knew something was going on. You both went off on some hair brained job or scheme, right? You both faked your deaths for some reason. Jesus Christ," Lestrade laughed and staggered to his desk, leaning against it.

Sherlock grimaced and waited for the laughter to cease.

Lestrade laughed again before getting his breath back. "So, where's John? Getting friendly with the new secretary? Or did you leave him to pay the cab and he just hasn't caught up yet?"

"Lestrade...Greg, I faked my death, yes; but, John...John did not. He really died," Sherlock said quietly and saw the color drain from Lestrade's face.

"You...you mean, John's really gone? I thought you two were off, touring the globe, tracking down criminals."

"We weren't. I wish I had taken him with me. John died six days after I left and I didn't know until I came back yesterday. I didn't know," Sherlock growled and looked away from the older man.

He didn't see the punch coming and was startled by the strength behind it. He stumbled back against the wall and slumped a bit as pain blossomed across his face. The door swung open to admit Donovan and Dimmock but that didn't stop Lestrade.

"You utter bastard! He died because of you and your stupid scheme. He died because you were his best friend! He died and you didn't give a rat's arse about him. You couldn't even bother to check in on your friends while you were off doing god knows what! You complete and utter arse!" Lestrade yelled as Sherlock straightened from the wall.

"I cared about John, more than you'll ever know. Finding out about his death almost broke me," Sherlock snarled and felt his heart pound painfully in his chest.

"Almost broke you...right. And yet here you are already, looking like you don't have a care in the world. You sure didn't let his death bother you too much."

Sherlock was suddenly right in Lestrade's face. He heard the people by the door move forward but a sharp glare from him stopped them in their tracks. He turned his stare slowly back to Lestrade and searched the man's eyes.

"Have...have you ever heard the term 'backdraft' from the fire brigade unit, Lestrade?" At the slight nod, Sherlock continued quietly so no one else could hear them. "That will give you an idea of what my current emotional state is concerning John's untimely death. Yesterday, Mycroft took me to his grave, preferring the direct method of sharing the news. My grief, was so severe...cut so deeply, that I was physically ill and had to be sedated. I have to keep my...emotions locked down so tightly that if they get one brief, one miniscule trickle of oxygen it will destroy myself and everyone around me. Look me in the eyes, Lestrade. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Look into mine and tell me how badly my own emotions are burning my very soul."

Sherlock let the mental walls fall and allowed the grief to flow through him. No longer hearing John's giggle after an exciting chase through the city. Knowing with absolute certainty, that there was one person that saw Sherlock for himself. That there was one person that always had Sherlock's back no matter what had transpired between them. One person that expected nothing from Sherlock other than to be his friend. All of that gone. Silent tears slid down his cheeks and he slowly closed his eyes, hoping he would be able to build the walls back up.

"Don't ever say I never cared for John. Because I cared is the reason I had to fall. One of my three reasons to step off that ledge. He and others would have died if I hadn't fallen, so I did; thinking I was saving them. But I was wrong...and I lost John instead."

Sherlock took a deep breath and opened his eyes to look at Lestrade. The older man was staring at him in silent awe. Lestrade suppressed a shiver of horror at what he saw in Sherlock's eyes. He had looked into the eyes of serial murderers and serial pedophiles. He thought he had seen all sorts of darkness and self hatred but Sherlock reached a new level. There was darkness inside of him that was endless. Almost all of it directed inward, tearing and shredding until his blood ran like a river. There was anger directed at the general populace but nothing compared to what he directed at himself. Lestrade saw the broken man.

"Don't ever say I don't care," Sherlock murmured and stepped away from the officer.

The look on Sherlock's face caused a path to clear as officers scattered. Sherlock was about to cross the room but he stopped in the doorway of Lestrade's office and looked sharply at the people trying not to outright stare at him.

Raising his voice to carry across the bullpen, "Yes, I am back. No, John is not. Don't ask me about it and do not mention it in my presence."

He took a few steps before Lestrade's voice stopped him again. "Sherlock?"

He turned his head just enough to look at Lestrade but not meet his gaze directly. "You said there were three reasons. Who were the other two?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and focused on breathing. Various ways to respond raced through his mind.

"Three individuals I'm honored to call friend," Sherlock replied and his head turned just a fraction more to lock gazes with Lestrade.

Two heartbeats later he turned and strode across the room towards the lifts. Silence reigned in his wake and he made the quick decision to bypass the lifts and take the stairs. He knew he wouldn't be able to tolerate standing there at the lifts, waiting, while everyone stared at him. And if he ended up having a small emotional breakdown on the stairs, no one would ever be the wiser. Gripping the cool handrail tightly with both hands, he rocked back and forth, sucking ragged breaths all the way down to his diaphragm. Focusing on the sensation of both his chest and abdomen expanding, he let the wave of emotions crash through his wounded psyche . He played the bystander using long mastered techniques. Allowing the feelings to flow through him; acknowledging their presence but not dwelling on them. When his arm muscles were starting to burn, he slowed his movement and straightened. Everything feeling calmer now.

Continuing down the stairs, he eventually exited the building and started down the street. Foregoing a cab, he let the city of London wrap around him and welcome him back into her loving embrace. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he hunched his shoulders up to bury himself into his coat. He blended with the surrounding people and let himself disappear into the crowds. He wanted to look to his side and see a short blonde walking with him but he knew he couldn't. People would be surprised to see that he wasn't curled up in the corner of his flat sobbing over the loss of John. Or that he wasn't searching for the first dealer to OD. Yes, he was hurting more than he thought possible. Yes, the guilt was practically eating him alive. No, he didn't think killing himself would make things better. No, he really didn't have a plan. He would work on cases and survive. He would...go visit John's grave and speak to him. That was what grieving individuals did. They visited their loved ones at their grave, brought flowers and talked. He could do that. He would visit John, bring him a to-go cup of tea and tell him about his cases and his time away. God, he missed John.

Once getting home, he immediately turned on the television, putting on some senseless drivel to drown out the silence. Maybe he could pretend that John is still sitting there watching the drivel, then if he happens to see movement in the corner of his eye...he won't look to confirm the empty space. Rubbing his suddenly damp hands on the front of his trousers, he starts up the stairs slowly, pausing in front of John's old door. _This won't get any easier_ , his mind prompted. Snarling at himself, he finally pushed open the door. Mrs. Hudson had been in here dusting; keeping it tidy. Four boxes were lined up next to the closet and the room was as sparse as when they had first moved in. Now five years after that wonderfully fateful day and the sum total of John's life was contained in four boxes standing silent witness to his presence. Sherlock released a shuddering breath before moving to the closet. Slowly opening the door, he stared at the clothing inside. All of John's hanging clothes were split into two bundles and encased in clear plastic to see the contents. A thin layer of dust coated the plastic, shielding the clothing underneath. He would have to go through all of it at some point, decide what he wanted to donate or keep or...he didn't know. He didn't see John's uniform hanging and then realized he was probably buried in it. The invisible strap around his chest tightened just a bit more. Slowly closing the door, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the wood. He could still hear the television on downstairs and for just a moment he could pretend that John was downstairs...would be angry to know Sherlock was snooping in his room. The tightness in his chest increased another notch and Sherlock pushed away from the closet to leave the room. Pulling the door shut behind him, he clattered down the stairs and stumbled into the sitting room. The television caught his eye and he watched as a picture of himself was put up on the screen next to the newscaster. The monotone voice of the announcer detailed how James Moriarty was proven to be an international criminal and had participated in various drug and smuggling rings, as well as ordered untold numbers of murders. She droned on about how Sherlock Holmes was suspected of being a crucial factor in bringing these criminals to justice. When she said his name, a picture of Sherlock and John together came up on the screen and in a heartbeat he was across the room slapping the television off. His eyes darted around the room, incapable of focusing on anything. Too much, too many memories. Couldn't control the flow. Blood roared in his ears as he stumbled towards his bedroom. Shutting the blinds, he plunged the room into darkness and stripped off all his clothing. His mobile was muted and dropped on the bedside table. Scars dotting his flesh flashed silver in the meagre light as he crawled across the bed. Burrowing himself under the covers, he sank into his mind palace and went straight for the music room. Mentally wrapping himself in the violin music, he slumbered.

(!)(!)(!)

Three days later Sherlock was on his fourth case. Once it was announced that he was alive and taking cases again, his Inbox started to ding periodically, indicating a new email. There were a few cases on his website as well so he stayed busy. Kept himself from thinking too much of John and how lonely the flat was. True, Mrs. Hudson still stopped by to make tea and bring scones or biscuits but he saw the sadness in her eyes. It was there every time she looked at John's old chair or at the tea kettle. She would put on a smile for him and tell him what her sister was up to or how the married ones next door were doing. Sherlock simultaneously loved and hated her stopping by. She provided company and a familiar face but also brought up more memories. She didn't speak of John, knowing Sherlock wouldn't tolerate it well. There were a few times that she'd start to bring up John's name but would cut herself off. She didn't speak of John in his presence, often catching herself as she started to bring up his name only to cut her sentence short instead. It would be shortly after that that she would make some weak excuse to leave.

He was now searching St. Mary's Lodge, a derelict building in Stoke Newington, N16. He had found a scrap of paper naming this lodge, while he was searching a missing woman's house. The husband didn't know what it meant, assuming it was rubbish since it was in the bin in her home office. Sherlock hadn't observed any signs that the marriage was rocky or abusive. The note was written quickly but then torn in half and the bottom part was missing.

St. Mary's Lodge was empty as Sherlock scrambled over the fencing to drop down on the other side. Rain had started up a few hours ago and showed no sign of abating. He was beyond soaking wet but the temptation of an almost solved case drove him to ignore the wet and cold. Forcing open the front door, he pulled out his torch and slowly advanced into the building. Rain water trickled down from holes in the ceiling and the weak scent of burnt wood lingered in the air. There were a few scant pieces of deplorable furniture along with various scraps of wood and debris littering the floors. Scorch marks twisted and climbed up two of the walls while mold grew on three fourths of the ceiling. Cautiously searching the rooms on the first floor, he found a few traces of recent activity but nothing to solidify his theory. Shining the light up the stripped stairs, he slowly advanced, tentatively testing each step before proceeding. The upper rooms looked just as bad as the first floor ones. These rooms were more exposed to the elements due to the larger windows that weren't completely boarded up. The partially destroyed roof also let more of the rainfall in, though he attempted to dodge the worst of it. One room seemed a bit more tidy and he stopped in the doorway to take it in. All of the windows were boarded up tightly, indicating any light in here would not be visible from outside the building. Milk crates sat tipped over onto their sides to provide seats. A out of place clean foot locker sat against one of the walls and he cautiously opened it to reveal various pieces of women's clothing. Nodding his head, Sherlock dropped the lid and spun to leave the room. He had everything he needed now.

Before the creaking noise could really register with him, the floor suddenly gave way beneath him, his weight proving too much for the rotted floor as he fell through to the lower level. The broken pieces of wood that weren't rotted through scraped along his body and snagged at the fabric of his Belstaff. His arms were wrenched sharply above his head and he slid out of the garment as he fell to the floor below. He felt and heard his ankle pop when he struck the ground floor. Flinging his arms back hoping to ease the remainder of his fall, he cried out as a searing pain scored up his forearm causing the arm to buckle under his weight. Ending up splayed out on the floor, it took his brain a few seconds to register the incoming pulses of pain from his ankle and arm. Groaning, he shifted onto his non-injured side in order to better assess his condition. He reached for his hurting arm, cradling the injured limb he carefully pulled it closer, curling almost into a fetal position to get a good look. Water from somewhere was dripping onto his face as he shifted over enough to be able to open his eyes. A seven inch gash graced his forearm and was steadily losing blood; not heavily enough to indicate he lacerated the radial artery but enough that he might have nicked it. Groaning, he let his head drop back to the floor and stared at his Belstaff as it hung above him. Of course, his mobile was in a pocket of the coat. It was hopeless. To sum it up, he was in an abandoned house, with a possibly broken ankle, mobile out of reach and gradually bleeding out from his radial artery.

Blood continued to escape his body as he stared at the ceiling and the swinging coat above him. He never thought it would end this way. Well, to be honest he really never thought about it. He just thought when it was his time, then it was his time. His coat swung gently in the breeze as he felt his mind and thoughts start to slow. The last thought he had before darkness took him was the oddness of a breeze moving through the house being strong enough to move his coat and he couldn't feel it. Hunh, odd.

(!)(!)(!)

Sherlock jerked awake with a snort as consciousness came back to him in one fell swoop. The sudden jerk alerted him that several things were also attached to his body and he blinked blearily at them trying to understand what he was seeing. Heart monitor cables emerged from the neck of a hospital gown. Forearm bandaged with gauze. Ankle elevated and wrapped tightly with an Ace bandage. Twin IV lines ran to his uninjured arm; one clear and the other red. His heart rate gradually slowed as he looked around the hospital room. Taking in everything he could, he let his head fall back to the pillow as the door opened to admit someone.

"Hey, good to see you conscious."

"Lestrade?" Sherlock questioned weakly, remembering the last interaction he had with the Detective Inspector.

"Yeah, how are you feeling?" he asked as he pulled the chair next to the bed closer.

Sherlock grunted as he let his eyes fall shut and performed an internal diagnostic. "Thirsty...tired."

"Here."

Sherlock opened his eyes to see a plastic cup with water in front of his face. Lestrade helped him raise up to drink and he sighed as the water eased the dryness of his throat. Surprised at how much the small movement exhausted him, he let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling.

"What happened? How did I get here?"

He turned his gaze to the detective inspector and saw the faint concern there that he hadn't noticed at first. Lestrade had taken off his coat and draped it over the back of his chair. The cuffs of his shirt and jacket were stained in blood and Sherlock had a feeling it was probably his own.

"You called me...from St. Mary's. You didn't say anything and I couldn't hear any background noises either. I thought it was an accidental dial and hung up but then you called back again. I had a bad feeling so I had your phone tracked."

Here he dropped his gaze and took a deep breath. A faint tremor worked it's way up Lestrade's spine before he looked up at Sherlock again.

"God, Sherlock, you were so pale. I thought you were already dead when I got there. I thought I had lost you all over again," Lestrade murmured and rubbed his face.

Sherlock stared at him in confusion.

"Lestrade, I didn't call you. My mobile was in my coat pocket, hanging from the hole I fell through. I couldn't have called you from it."

"No, your Belstaff was on the floor next to you," Lestrade replied and stood walking over to the small closet.

Opening it, Lestrade revealed the hanging Belstaff and pulled out Sherlock's Blackberry. Selecting the call log, he walked back over to the bed and held the mobile out to the wary detective. Carefully taking it, Sherlock looked at the screen and saw the two outgoing calls to Lestrade's number. Six seconds between the first call and the second call. Selecting the second call, he saw that it lasted for twelve minutes, conveniently active long enough for the call to have been traced. Sherlock let the hand holding the mobile fall to the mattress beside his hip while he stared at the device. He remembered none of it. The Belstaff had still been hanging when he lost consciousness. Even if it had fallen, he certainly hadn't woken up. He wouldn't have been able to reach into the pocket, pull out his phone, unlock the screen and dial Lestrade's number; definitely not dial twice.

Looking up at Lestrade, he blinked before looking back to his bandaged arm.

"I don't remember any of that. My last memory was watching my coat swinging above me. I thought I was going to die there," he muttered as the DI sat back down in his seat.

"Well...I'm glad you didn't." Lestrade took a deep breath before continuing. "Sherlock, I'm sorry for what I said back at the precinct. I know you cared for John and it was wrong of me to doubt that."

Sherlock shrugged and shifted until he was on his side and able to curl up a bit. Rearranging the tubes, he wrapped his good arm around his abdomen and carefully fingered at the bandages on his forearm.

"Not all of it was wrong, Lestrade. Once I left, I didn't look back. I had a mission and had to see it through. I thought...I thought everyone would grieve for me like a friend and then move on. Forget about me except for occasionally thinking of that odd freak that sometimes helped the MET out," Sherlock muttered, glancing up at one of the IV bags, wondering what the hell they were giving him.

"You never were and are not the 'odd freak', Sherlock. I like to think of you as my friend," Lestrade said and reached out to gently squeeze Sherlock's knee.

Sherlock grunted and let his eyelids close against the bright lights.

"Sherlock, who were your other two reasons?"

The consulting detective sighed into his pillow and felt the hand on his knee squeeze once more. Without opening his eyelids, he answered the older man.

"Mrs. Hudson was one, John was another and...yourself, Detective Inspector. The only three people that I could call my friends. Moriarty had trained assassins on you all and would have had you killed if I hadn't stepped off that roof. John's death...was not part of the plan."

The room was silent as Lestrade took in that information and Sherlock continued trying to understand what happened at St. Mary's. He could find no sliver of a memory of him dialing Lestrade. Opening his eyelids, he stared down at his mobile and gently poked at it in with a finger. He saw no traces of blood on the device either. Could he really have managed to obtain the phone and dial Lestrade twice without getting blood on it? Blinking heavily, he nudged the mobile away once more as he sank back into the bed. He was so tired.

He didn't hear Lestrade stand or feel him pull the blanket up over his shoulders. He didn't see the fond look the older man gave him or feel when he brushed aside a curl of hair.

"I would die for you as well, Sherlock," Lestrade murmured and went to find out when his friend would be released.

(!)(!)(!)

Two days later, Sherlock hobbled into his flat with one crutch, one badly sprained ankle and nine stitches. The stitches under the bandage on his forearm itched horribly but he knew better than to mess with them. Lestrade had dropped him off at home and formally handed his care over to his landlady. He could hear Mrs. Hudson fussing downstairs and knew she would be up shortly with tea and something edible. Leaning the crutch against the wall, he pulled off his Belstaff and jacket to toss them aside before grabbing the crutch again. Hobbling over to his chair, he set it aside and eased back into the leather chair with a groan. Relaxing for a moment, he pulled his mobile out of his trouser pocket and held it in front of him. Slowly spinning the device, he stared at his reflection in the touch screen before setting it on the arm rest. A small part of him started to wonder if he was actually losing his mind. The lavatory incident from a few days prior came back to him and he looked in the direction of the room. Was Sherlock Holmes actually going crazy?

Muttering a curse, he pushed himself up and hopped across the room using the mantle and other furniture to help balance himself on his way to the kitchen. Just as he reached his goal, he heard Mrs. Hudson start up the stairs, the tinkling sounds of her tea service announcing her presence.

"In the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock called and snagged a bottle of water from the fridge.

He stared out the window as Mrs. Hudson brought in her tray. Listening to the sounds of her bustling about with the teapot, Sherlock eventually turned and hopped to the closest stool.

"Should you be up and moving around on your ankle, Sherlock? It's not going to heal properly if you don't take it easy," Mrs. Hudson said as she poured him a cup of tea fixed the way he liked it.

"No need to worry. I've handled plenty of injuries worse than this," Sherlock murmured and carefully cradled the hot cup.

Mrs. Hudson paused but didn't pursue that line of conversation. They hadn't discussed Sherlock's time away and Sherlock never expected them to. Mrs. Hudson just needed to know that Sherlock had to go away and the way in which he did was the best way he knew how. What happened during that time was a topic best left unexplored. Sherlock sipped from his tea and tried not to look at the RAMC mug that sat alone against the back splash on the counter. Mrs. Hudson saw where he was trying not to look. She wasn't a dumb woman, nor unobservant.

"It was a lovely funeral. You would have...well, it was a lovely funeral," she said softly, looking into her own cup.

Sherlock blinked and took another swallow of tea. "Whether it was lovely or not, the dead don't care."

"A nice funeral is not put on for the deceased, it's for the people left behind," Mrs. Hudson snapped in an out of character pique of temper.

Sherlock was startled by the outburst, staring openly at his landlady before she reigned in her sharp tongue. Taking a deep breath, she set down her cup of tea and reached out to grip Sherlock's uninjured forearm.

"A funeral is so those that are left behind can share all the good memories they have of the deceased. So everyone can add more good memories to the ones they already have. So others can learn just what an amazing man John Watson was."

"I already knew he was amazing. I...I wish I could have told him that in person," Sherlock whispered and blinked away the tears that threatened to fall.

"He knew, dear. You insult us all, saying we don't observe but he watched you. He knew when you were in a mood. He knew you cared even when you said you didn't. He knew you had a good heart and he knew you cared for him," Mrs. Hudson said softly, squeezing his arm again.

It was silent for a few moments before Mrs. Hudson kissed the top of his head and left him to his thoughts. Ignoring his own tea cup, Sherlock reached for the RAMC mug and poured himself another cup of tea. Shutting off all the lights, he carried the mug with him into his bedroom and set it down on the bedside table before he spilled it. He wanted a shower first, but his body was reaching the end of it's metaphorical rope. Changing into a pair of loose pajama bottoms, he sat on his bed with his back against the headboard. Hesitating for a moment, he opened the drawer of his nightstand and pulled out the small stack of photographs he kept there. Setting them in his lap, he sipped at his tea and took a moment to rub his thumb over the RAMC logo. Curling his wrist, he pressed the mug to his chest and turned his attention to looking at the stack of photographs in his lap. He slowly flipped through them one at a time, spreading them out on the bed around him. Pictures of John and himself after a case. Pictures of the two of them at the NSY leaning over a table, examining evidence. Pictures of the two of them arguing. A picture of John, Lestrade and himself at a crime scene all staring at Anderson with raised eyebrows. A picture of John and Sherlock passed out in different positions in the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson must have taken that one when they finished up a long and difficult case. Various pictures documenting John and Sherlock's life together, their friendship. Sherlock's tears were all dried up as he stared at the mementos. This was his past. The life he left behind.

"I'm sorry, John. Sorry for...well, sorry for everything, I guess."

With a sigh, he put aside the now empty tea mug and collected the pictures. The drawer of the nightstand was still open and he placed the stack of pictures towards the very back. Sliding the drawer shut, he turned off the light and slid down in his bed. Keep moving forward. That was all he could do now. Keep...moving...forward.


	3. Chapter 3

"Lestrade, go left and cut him off!" Sherlock yelled to the Detective Inspector trailing after him as they chased the suspect.

Sherlock's vast intellect was plotting various routes that the suspect could take and the probability of him turning straight into Lestrade was high. It was towards his usual stomping grounds meaning heightened familiarity. It was downhill slightly so he could conserve energy. Logic dictated he would go left. Sherlock watched as the suspect veered right and headed towards Millennium Bridge. Swearing hotly under his breath, he pumped his legs harder feeling his ankle twinge at the abuse as he surged up the incline. Sprinting across the street and dodging evening traffic, he followed the suspect onto the bridge. Sherlock was in better shape and slowly closed the distance until he was close enough to dive for the suspect's legs. The two went tumbling to the walkway but before Sherlock could get vertical the suspect's foot lashed out, kicking him in the face. Pushing past the initial sharp burst of pain, Sherlock grabbed at the man's legs and both struggled to their feet using the other as a prop. The initial blow disoriented him but he could still avoid anything coming at him. Sherlock was on the defensive, steadily being pushed back towards the railing. Landing a few punches of his own was satisfying, but it wasn't helping him any. One sharp blow to his diaphragm had him doubled over gasping for breath, just hoping that the suspect was going to leave him there with what little dignity he had left. That hope was dashed when he felt himself being lifted. Realizing there was only one place he could be going, Sherlock grabbed at anything he could and pulled. If he was going into the river, then the man who put him there was coming with him. Hearing the choked off cry prompted a surge of satisfaction as he watched the bridge fall away from them. Bracing for the impact with the river, his eyes popped open with a gasp when he felt a hand grab the neck of his Belstaff firmly, jerking him back. A flash of something cream colored skirted around his peripheral vision and instead of crashing into the water he hit something much firmer.

Blinking at the night sky above him in confusion, he spread his fingers and pressed down, expecting to feel water but instead he felt metal. Rolling over and pushing himself up, he found he was still atop the bridge. The same location where he went over the edge. Looking in both directions, he saw Lestrade come running up one side of the bridge with a profound look of relief on his face.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, are you okay?" Lestrade asked as the detective gently felt his face.

He could feel severe tenderness but no sharp pains, so nothing broken. Punches to chest and torso would just leave bruising as well as tenderness. Scrambling suddenly to the side of the bridge, he peered through the railings and down into the water to look for the suspect. A few yards downstream he saw a body floating in the water. Lestrade put in a call to the Marine Policing Unit to come and retrieve the body. Sherlock watched its slow progression down the river before sitting back and slumping against one of the beams.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade and felt his jaw open and close a few times as he tried to make sense of everything. Looking up and down along the bridge, there was no one near enough who might have pulled him back.

"I...I think I'm losing my mind Lestrade," he muttered before he looked away.

"Wha-"

"I went over the edge with that suspect. I know I did. I felt us go over the edge. I watched the bridge fall away from me as we grappled. But then I blinked, something grabbed my coat and jerked...all of a sudden I was here on the bridge. I think I'm losing my mind."

Lestrade stared at him for a moment before speaking. "I thought I saw you go over the edge but I was a ways away and didn't have a good angle. We both must have been wrong."

Sherlock shook his head and climbed to his feet, swaying again. Okay, maybe the blow to his face did affect him a bit. "No, no, I went over the edge. I know I did."

"Well obviously not, because here you are and the suspect is down there," Lestrade replied as he gripped Sherlock's biceps to help keep him vertical.

"This...this is not logical. Can't be," Sherlock muttered and felt his knees buckle.

"Whoo...easy there mate."

Lestrade grunted at the sudden additional weight and gently lowered Sherlock back to the ground.

"Lestrade...Greg, what did you see coming up the bridge?" Sherlock asked and grabbed ahold of the DI's sleeve.

Lestrade knelt next to Sherlock and tipped the detective's head back to check his pupils. Gently feeling along the scalp, he searched for any bumps but found none.

"I saw you two grappling when you started to tilt over the edge. I lost sight of you for a moment and was worried you actually did go over. But then I saw you splayed out on the walkway. I'm really glad you didn't," Lestrade said, breathing a sigh of relief and remembering his almost heart stopping fear.

Lestrade kept a hand on Sherlock's shoulder while waving over the paramedics to check on the consulting detective. Sherlock was silent as the medics checked his pupils and felt along his ribs. He assured them he had no trouble breathing and declined to go to hospital. Promising to go if he felt worse, he left Lestrade with assurances he would come by the station the next day or two to provide a statement. Disappearing into the evening crowds of London, Sherlock hunched his shoulders and moved through the streets.

He was sure he had fallen off that bridge. The memory of watching the bridge fall away from him was as clear as it could be. He didn't just imagine that. Replaying the whole memory, his feet moved on autopilot taking him home. Cutting down a dimly lit alley like he usually did, Sherlock didn't notice the darkened shadow charging at him. A grunt was forced from him as he was shoved against the brick wall and his head bounced off the stones. Holding a hand to his now bleeding scalp, he dizzily glared at the culprit. A terrified looking kid was trembling in fear and surprise as he stared at Sherlock. Straightening and moving towards the kid, Sherlock was just reaching for the kid's arm when the boy frantically pawed at his own pockets before finding what he was looking for.

"Stay back!" the kid yelled and Sherlock obediently took a step back, immediately recognizing the outline of what was in the kid's hands.

Sherlock narrowed his gaze at the aged handgun and recognized the World War II era piece. Probably the kid's grandfather's or great grandfather's service weapon. Sherlock wondering if it was still fireable and then wondered if he really needed to know. John's voice came back to him suddenly; a reminder so often given, to treat all weapons as if they were in mint condition and can still do what they were designed to do. Taking his hand away from his scalp, Sherlock held his hands out to his sides in the international sign of non-hostile.

"Alright, take it easy kid," Sherlock said calmly.

The sound of a car backfiring on the street immediately preceded the sound of the handgun firing. Sherlock fell back against the brick wall, instinctively curling over his abdomen as the boy yelped and dropped the gun. The sound of the kid running away reached Sherlock's ears as he wrapped his arms tightly around his abdomen. He knew he needed to staunch the bleeding until he got help. Life with John had taught him plenty about trauma care. A gunshot wound to the abdomen was never good. The chance of…

Sherlock took a deep breath and realized he felt no overwhelming sensation of pain. Slowly straightening, he kept his arms wrapped around his abdomen but started to release the pressure. The dim lighting of the alley didn't help him as he spread his arms and looked down to assess his abdomen. Not seeing any discoloration, he quickly unbuttoned his shirt, not even noticing his shaking hands. Spreading the fabric, he stared in amazement at the unblemished white skin of his torso and abdomen. He watched the skin flex as he breathed deeply and still felt no pain. The gun had gone off. It was pointed right at him. Did it misfire? No, he distinctly heard the discharge after the car had backfired. A blank possibly? Spinning, he stared at the brick wall behind him and felt his knees wobble at the sight. There was a fresh chip in the brick and he could see the embedded mushroomed slug. Did he really miss being shot by sheer luck? Pawing at his coat and jacket, he couldn't find any bullet holes but he realized it was dark and he was panicking. Starting to feel light headed, he slowly dropped to his knees and sat back on his heels with his hands curled in his lap. How? His life was ruled by logic and intelligence and science but none of those covered this. How did he avoid that bullet? All the evidence pointed to the fact that the bullet was fired, it was aimed directly at his torso and he didn't move enough to avoid the projectile...yet he wasn't struck. It didn't make sense. It wasn't logical.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Sherlock looked up at the concerned pedestrian. He expected the deductions to start firing through his mind about the person but it was silent. His mind was preoccupied with his near death.

"Yeah...yes, I'm fine. Fine," Sherlock muttered and slowly rose.

Ignoring any other questions, he wrapped his coat tightly around himself and continued on his way home. Rain started falling just as he turned onto Baker Street but instead of hurrying up to get inside, he slowed down and enjoyed the rain. Stopping outside the door of 221, he tilted his head back and felt the rain strike his face. His mind slowed just enough for him to feel in control and he took a deep breath. Opening his eyes, a sudden flash of tan at the corner of his eye caused him to jerk his head around sharply, slinging water from his hair. Searching for what made the movement, he saw nothing and narrowed his gaze. Sherlock couldn't keep track of the number of people that had called him crazy over the years but for the first time in his life...he was starting to honestly wonder. Looking around one more time, he turned and pulled out his keys. The building was silent as he went up the stairs and let himself into his flat. It was dark except for a single lamp that permanently stayed on. Without pausing, he walks to the tellie, turning it on to fill the quiet. He found that he needed it now whenever he was at home. Needed something to fill the silence, be it the telly or radio.

Pulling off his coat, he hung it up to dry and pulled off his jacket to drape across the couch arm. Walking to his chair, he sat, propping his face up on one open palm while his other hand drummed on the arm rest. One finger tapped at his temple in thought as he stared at the wall above the chair across from him. He replayed the whole scene in his mind from when the kid ran into him to when he ran off in fear. No matter how many times he reviewed it, he still should have been shot.

With a growl, he stood quickly and grabbed his laptop. He needed to do some research.

(!)(!)(!)

Three days later he still had no answers. He had gone back to the alley the next day and even though the gun was now gone, the mushroomed bullet remained in the brick wall. Otherwise the alley looked the exact same as when he was last there. He had removed the bullet and examined it under his microscope at home. He saw the rifling on the bullet and found the chemical proof that it had been fired. Gripping his hair in utter frustration, Sherlock spun and looked around the room. Books were scattered about, opened to different pages. Tea that Mrs. Hudson had brought up sat cold and ignored on various surfaces. His head whipped around at the brisk knock on the door. He hadn't heard the door downstairs open.

Before he could speak, the door opened to admit Mycroft. Sherlock groaned and spun to sit in his chair, wrapping his dressing gown around himself and pulling his legs up into the chair with him. Staring at the telly, he studiously ignored Mycroft and hoped against hope that his brother would leave him alone. The game show that was on was tedious and mind numbingly boring but it was something.

"How have you been doing, Sherlock?"

Sherlock cut his gaze over towards his brother and grunted. Looking back to the show, he realized his stomach was grumbling and sharp hunger pains were making themselves known. Standing swiftly, he walked to the kitchen and snagged the bag of sliced bread. He heard Mycroft follow him into the kitchen but didn't look over at him.

"I'm fine. Couldn't be better," he replied while he loaded the toaster with bread.

"Really? Because Detective Inspector Lestrade messaged me that he was concerned about you. Said you were acting strangely at the last crime scene. Doctor Hooper has messaged you three times about interesting specimens at the morgue and you haven't responded to her. So, lets just pretend I've asked again and this time you tell me the truth," Mycroft replied and crossed his arms over his chest.

Automatically, Sherlock felt the pockets of his dressing gown and found no mobile. Must be in the sitting room or his bed room. Or John's room. Or...he wasn't sure. That bothered him more than the fact that Mycroft was here and pointed out that he had been ignoring the outside world. The toast popped up and he snatched at it lightly to drop it on his plate. Pulling the jam from the fridge, he slathered it on the toast and left the jar sitting there on the counter. Turning, he pulled the stool out with his foot and sat at the table. Taking a bite, he chewed while staring at the toast in his hand.

"I think I'm going crazy," he muttered softly before taking another bite.

Mycroft was silent; he pulled out the other stool and sat across from Sherlock. Hooking his umbrella on the edge of the table, he shrugged off his coat and draped it over his lap. Leaning forward and bracing his elbows on the tabletop, Mycroft laced his fingers together and took a deep breath. The two brothers watched each other until Mycroft spoke.

"I usually find that the people that are worried they are going insane, rarely are. It's the ones that think they're saner than everyone else that you have to be cautious around," Mycroft replied and Sherlock rolled his eyes before taking another bite of toast.

"There have been four occasions that I should have...died, you could say. Or been seriously wounded. But somehow I didn't or wasn't and I can not explain it."

Sherlock watched his brother and knew what he was about to say even as he opened his mouth. He would have said the same thing if the roles had been reversed. He needed Mycroft to play devil's advocate and help him explain this.

"Mycroft...I can not explain it away. I've tried."

Mycroft closed his mouth and sat there watching as Sherlock finished eating the first piece of toast and started poking at the other on the plate. He wished he knew what to say to his little brother. He was a genius and a scientist so he knew how to perform experiments; to use the formulation of questions, hypotheses, predictions, testing and analysis. Mycroft knew that Sherlock would have already gone through his process with the same infinite detail he applied to everything. He watched his brother finish his meagre meal and nudge away the plate.

Sherlock sighed, glancing into the sitting room before looking back to his brother. "Any suggestions? Thoughts?"

"What would you like me to say, Sherlock? I think you're still grieving over the loss of John. I think you may be attaching undue importance to common happenstances. Hoping that John may still be with you...perhaps as your...guardian angel?"

Sherlock scoffed and stood from his stool. He put away the jam, stopping with the fridge door open to stare into the cold interior. Shaking his head after a long moment, he pushed the door closed and turned back to stare at Mycroft.

"I don't. I don't think he's looking over me. He's dead, I know that, I acknowledge that fact. I don't believe in angels or an afterlife or anything of that sort, but I can't explain what's been happening to me, Mycroft. I can make the logic work in one or two of the cases but not all of them. Either my observations are incorrect or I'm working with the wrong original data."

Mycroft nodded and stood to slip into his jacket. The informal conversation was over between the siblings. "Well, do call me if you would like to talk again or if you come to a conclusion. I would be interested to hear it."

He walked to the door and paused before exiting. "Your mobile is sitting on the vanity in the lavatory."

Sherlock sneered silently and listened as his brother walked down the stairs to exit the building. Stalking to the lav, he did find his mobile and swiped his thumb across the screen to unlock the device. Several missed texts and a few missed calls. Clearing them all, he tossed his mobile towards the bed and went to get cleaned up. He had one important stop to make, then hopefully he could move on. Finish reading between the lines. Finish hoping for something he knew would never happen.

Twenty minutes later, he stepped out the flat and into a light drizzle of rain. Glancing up at the grey sky, he turned and started walking. He knew he could easily get a cab but somehow walking in the rain made everything else more bearable. He walked and rode the tube; walking between some stations to walk past significant areas. He submerged himself in memories as he walked, imagining a short dirty blond haired doctor next to him. Talking and giggling about their last case together. Or reminiscing about running through the dark streets of London. His fingers ran over the object buried in his pocket. The cool material warming under his fingers as he walked.

Eventually the memories brought him to Kensal Green Cemetery and followed him up the drive. The steady drizzle didn't obscure the graves and tombs he passed. He could see the cold sentinel as he was walking towards up on the hill. It seemed to overshadow the much darker one next to it. His steps slowed and eventually he stopped upon reaching the grave. Fresh flowers were laid in front of the pale stone and leaves skittered across the plot as a strong breeze blew past. Looking down, his gaze roved over the inscription again before taking a deep breath and looking away.

"This is ridiculous. I don't believe in this sort of sentimental stuff," he muttered and clenched his jaw.

Taking another deep breath to gather himself and organize his thoughts, he turned back to the grave stone. "But I do believe in apologizing to my best friend for grievous wrongs that I committed.

"I jumped to save you, John. That was my intention. Moriarty would have killed you and I couldn't let that happen. I wouldn't let that happen. But, like you always joked, 'the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry'. Why you felt the need to compare mice and men, I've never quite figured out...but...I digress."

Sherlock took another deep breath and let the anguish wash past him. He could get through this.

"You never should have been hurt. You were supposed to grieve and move on. You were supposed to forget about me, find a woman that made you giggle and gave you the 2.5 kids and pet dog you always wanted. You never should have died!"

He choked on that last word and cleared his throat, looking away again from the now blurry stone. A shiver rippled through him and he hunched deeper into his Belstaff, rounding his shoulders.

"I came...I came to say goodbye, John. I can't take the memories...the regrets. I've never tried it before but once I get home...I'm going to delete you. You know how I hate being wrong. Missing that one thing. I thought you'd forget about me. Now...I risk forgetting about you. I can't bear to lose small pieces of you over the coming years. How you sounded when you giggled at crime scenes. How you always had a cup of tea for me when I didn't realize I wanted one. How you stood up for me when no one ever did.

"I can't bear to lose you slowly and wake up one morning to find I've forgotten the sound of your voice. So, I'll wipe it clean and lose it all at once but I won't know it. I'll go on like before...before I met you. Continue to solve crimes like you would have wanted me to. And...if you are actually watching over me then...well, I guess I'll figure out some way to explain it away."

Sherlock dropped his head, looking at the gravestone with the rain running down over the words. Biting his bottom lip to hold back the sob, he reached into the pocket of his Belstaff and withdrew the object he'd carried from home. Rubbing his thumb over the RAMC logo, he stepped forward and reached down to place the mug in front of the flowers. Pushing the mug firmly into the damp grass, he reluctantly straightened and shoved his hand back into his pocket. Seeing the mug placed there broke a small part of Sherlock but he shoved the pain of it away.

"I know it doesn't matter now. But I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry."

He let a tear escape and it soon disappeared into the rainwater that trickled down his face. "Goodbye John Watson."

Biting his inner cheek, he turned and walked away. It was time to move on. Time to put it all behind him. It was better this way. He started to collect all the memories that contained John and put them in a specialized room. He had never attempted to delete this large of a collection before and realized he might have to adjust his normal procedure. He was so occupied by these thoughts that he didn't notice the middle aged woman following him. He didn't realize he was in a dangerous situation until a van screeched to a halt beside him. He stepped away quickly, but he didn't get far when something pierced his lower back and some eighty thousand volts surged through his body. His head jerked back and every muscle in his body spasmed painfully. A grunt was ripped from his mouth as star bursts exploded behind his closed eyelids. Just when he thought it was never going to end it did and he crumpled bonelessly to the ground. A thick humming noise filled his ears and he didn't hear the voices or van door slamming shut behind him once he was dumped on the floor. He panted weakly as residual spasms racked his body. He couldn't even think of opening his eyes...actually couldn't even remember how to do that. The humming followed him into darkness.

(!)(!)(!)

A sharp kick to his ribs jolted him painfully back to consciousness. Trying to gasp for air, he panicked when he realized that something was blocking his airway. Jerking his head back to hopefully remove himself from whatever was blocking his mouth, his teeth clamped onto something rubbery and a few more moments of adrenaline fueled fear passed before he could calm enough to evaluate his situation. His wrists and elbows were tied behind his back, pulling his shoulders back painfully. He was stripped of his Belstaff and jacket. A large ball gag kept his mouth wide open and he could feel his hair caught in the clasp. A quick jerk confirmed that his ankles were also tied together. He tried to blink away the darkness but quickly realized it was nighttime and there were no streetlamps nearby. The stars above him were rocking to and fro and he idly wondered how much electricity he was hit with. He let his eyes rove the extent of his peripheral vision to take in his surroundings until he zeroed in on the middle aged woman leaning against the railing.

Her arms were crossed across her chest and her head was tipped back to stare at the night sky. One hand reached up and plucked the burning cigarette from her mouth, flicking the ash loose over the railing. Sherlock finally identified the noises he was hearing as water lapping against something. He was on a boat somewhere. The woman's head tilted back down to look at him and he searched his memory for the familiar face. Raising an eyebrow, the woman took a drag on the cigarette again before speaking.

"Give it a moment, it'll come back to you."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze and looked over her figure, the minute details all adding together to give him a more complete picture of the person that kidnapped him. Identification came to him suddenly with mental klaxons. Judith Whibley, 49 years old, widowed, Starbucks store manager, mother of Cassandra Whibley, daughter dead by serial rapist, fifth and last victim, four and a half years ago.

"Ah, there's the connection. It's been a while Mr. Holmes. Thought I had forgotten about you?"

Sherlock could remember their last interaction clearly. When she had to identify her daughter's body, she had confronted him, screaming and railing about why he didn't save her daughter. Why the great Sherlock Holmes didn't find the rapist fast enough to save her baby. He had felt back then that he should have worked harder, been quicker. It was such a close call, she passed away a mere twenty minutes before they found her. John assured him it wasn't his fault. Grieving mothers will say anything in their desperation to blame someone for the unthinkable. Sherlock had gone home, unable to sleep for four days until John finally drugged him.

"You let my baby die. Left her to die at that monster's hands because she wasn't important enough for you. I thought you had gotten what you deserved when you jumped off that building."

He jerked against his bindings, searching for some way to get himself loose or free. This was not going to end well for him.

"Imagine my shock and fury when you appeared on the telly. How dare you survive...living happily ever after when you discarded my baby girl." Still clutching the smouldering stub she jabbed her index finger at the captive detective. "I knew then that I had to make you suffer. Make you feel the terror that my baby must have felt in her last moments," she said, flicking the spent cigarette over the edge.

Sherlock continued struggling, grunting against the gag.

"Time for you to take a dip, Mr. Holmes."

Fear seized in Sherlock's chest as Whibley pushed away from the railing and moved towards him. She knelt next to him and started pushing him along, slowly nearing the lowered edge of the boat. Sherlock started thrashing, lashing out as much as he could given his bindings. He knew if he went into the water, it was all over. He wouldn't be able to keep himself afloat for long. He might be able to for a bit...but not long enough to get himself loose. A small part of Sherlock railed that this was when he needed John. This is where John should appear and save Sherlock's arse. But he wouldn't be coming this time.

He tried to hook his feet around anything he could reach. Tried to knock Whibley away, hoping she might crack her head open or fall in the water herself and drown. Something, anything. He did manage to land a few knee jabs and headbutts but he was still progressively moving towards the edge of the boat. Just as Whibley took a deep breath and gave one final huge push, Sherlock took a deep breath and felt the deck disappear from under him. The cold water shocked his system and he sealed his lips around the ball gag to retain all the oxygen he could. Pressing his legs together, he rolled his hips and legs in a wave and managed to break through the surface. Gasping for air before he sank back under, he saw Whibley standing there, watching him with cold eyes. Water washed over his face again as he continued struggling to get himself loose.

His muscles began to tire and his lungs burned as he sank deeper. He didn't expect it would end like this. He suddenly thought of Lestrade and Mycroft. Lestrade would be called first, once they fished his body from the water. Mycroft would be called so a family member could officially identify the body. God, Molly would have to do the autopsy. His autopsy. Water in his lungs would indicate that he was alive when he went into the water. Testing the water would confirm it was fresh water he drowned in; chemically identical to the Thames.

His transport's instincts took over and he sucked in water through his nose, needing and expecting oxygen. The water burned as it flooded his nasal passages and rushed into his lungs. His body spasmed, trying to eject the liquid and obtain the air it needed.

Darkness came quickly after that.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock jerked awake coughing and retching up water. Rolling onto his hands and knees, he pressed his forehead into the dirt beneath him and continued to gag. When he felt like his lungs wouldn't actually vacate his own body, he rocked back on his knees far enough to lift his head. Looking around, he finally tilted a bit to his side, landing on his rump as he tried to understand where he was.

A thin fog covered the ground and thick trees stood as sentinels around him. Thick ferns grew at the bottom of most of the trees and some grew in small clumps on their own. To his left was a log practically buried by dirt, pine needles and twigs. To his right was a thick tree that had fallen and was thicker than Sherlock was tall. It was surprisingly quiet. He could hear noises from the forest denizens but nothing nearby. There were no forests like these in London or Great Britain he knew, so where was he. Slowing rising to his feet, he staggered over to one of the trees stretching out a hand towards it. Stumbling forward, his hand struck the tree and his other hand came up to press against the tree trunk as well. Leaning back, he craned his head back and stared up the tree. Moving slowly, he walked around the tree, never losing connection with his hands. He stumbled over roots and ferns and by the time he reached his starting point he had to admit to himself that it was real. So, the next question was how did he get here?

"You are a bloody idiot, I hope you know that."

At the sudden voice, Sherlock spun and threw his back against the tree. Seeing no one near him on the forest floor, his gaze darted up spying movement atop the fallen tree. Squatting atop the tree with one hand hanging between his legs to balance himself was John. He was barefoot and wore pale blue jeans with an off white jumper. Curving over his shoulders was a set of large and powerful looking wings. They were a mottled pattern of beige, tan and white. He couldn't accurately estimate the full length because they fell behind both John and the fallen tree he was perched on.

These observations were made in a split second before Sherlock stumbled away from the tree and started running. He was losing his mind. Or he was actually dead, but would his afterlife start with him retching in a forest of redwood trees? Suddenly feeling displaced air nearby, he slid to a stop when John appeared in front of him.

"Now Sherlock, just calm down."

Sherlock tore off in another direction. Maybe this was his version of hell with a dead John tormenting him with his failures. Leaping over a felled limb, he took two more strides before John appeared in front of him again. Throwing his body backwards, he fell to his rump and scooted back a few more feet. Twisting around, fueled by his ever mounting panic, he dug his fingers into the dirt and started to scramble away. Before he could even get to his feet, he ran into a pair of legs that didn't move when he crashed into them. His shoulders were gripped and he was lifted bodily into the air by John. The wings were flared out behind him and Sherlock darted his eyes back and forth trying to take the whole picture in.

"Sherlock, calm down so we can talk," John said sternly while giving him a solid shake.

Sherlock was about to hyperventilate; he was dizzy and felt a tingling sensation creeping up his feet and hands. John, his dead best friend, was holding him up, off the ground. He had wings! Sherlock must be in the process of losing his mind because he wasn't making sense of anything. Like a massive file dump where everything scrambles at once. His head rolled back as the light headedness made itself known.

"Dammit, Sherlock," John snapped as he set him back down, supporting him as his legs buckled and he landed on his rump again.

John snapped his fingers and a small paper bag suddenly appeared in his hand which he thrust towards Sherlock. The logical part of Sherlock balked upon seeing that and his panic started to build even more.

"Breath into that and keep your head between your knees. Close your eyes if it helps," John ordered, nudging open Sherlock's bent legs before pushing his head down.

John stood behind him, pressing his shins against Sherlock's lower back to help keep him curled between his knees. Sherlock pressed the opening of the paper bag around his mouth and panted into the enclosed space. His free hand buried itself into his still damp hair and gripped the strands tightly to help ground himself. His breathing eventually slowed and he lowered both hands to his lap. The fresh air was clean and refreshing as he slowly straightened. Feeling the pressure of the legs still touching his back, he slowly shifted to his feet and stood while turning. John watched him warily, waiting for another dash. Sherlock slowly reached out and gently poked his finger into John's chest.

"I'm really here, Sherlock," John said softly as the long, pale finger moved to poke at another part of his torso.

Sherlock didn't speak but started to slowly walk around John, poking as he went. He didn't poke at the wings but his fingers did trail down a primary feather. He stopped when he was standing in front of John again. Watched the wide range of emotions and thoughts dart across Sherlock's face, John waited for the onslaught of questions.

"John."

John raised an eyebrow at the statement that sounded more like a question.

"Yes."

"You're John."

"Yes, Sherlock."

"But you're dead."

If the situation wasn't so bizarre and saddening John might have found it funny. The great Sherlock Holmes suffering from a loss of words.

"Yes."

"But you're here."

"Yes."

"Here alive...well...is alive the correct term?"

John shrugged his shoulders and at the same time his wings ruffled which drew Sherlock's eyes to the appendages.

"You have wings."

"That comes with the territory of being an angel, Sherlock."

That made Sherlock pause, turning his face away and studying their surroundings. Taking a step back, he looked at John again, now that he was calm enough to focus properly. He observed, not only the wings and bare feet, but the details he had missed in his earlier panic. John looked young. Younger than when Sherlock first met him. This must have been what John was like while still in the military. At his youthful prime. Sherlock's jaw hung open for a few moments before it snapped shut.

"Jesus, John. You're an angel. Am I dead? I must be dead," Sherlock muttered as he shook his head.

"No, Sherlock. You're not dead but you've certainly given it a good college try a few times," John muttered, stepping away from Sherlock to run a hand through his hair.

"A good colle-, it _was_ you! The kid in the alley with the gun. Millennium Bridge! You were in the shower with me!"

Sherlock flushed bright red upon realizing what he just said. John just raised his eyebrows before sighing, turning to walk a few steps away.

"Yes, Sherlock, I stopped you from hitting your head in the shower. I dialed Lestrade when you fell through the floor. I did it all. I've been...keeping an eye on you since I got these," John said, gesturing over his shoulder at the wings.

"And you're just now showing yourself to me? Do you realize how much I've been tormenting myself over you?"

"Just about as much as I've wanted to torment you myself. Wasn't that a shocker when I died? Went to heaven and found out that Sherlock Holmes didn't die when I thought he did. I suffered for you for days before I died!" John snarled and Sherlock flinched at the memory.

The image of John lying in that alley alone flashed through Sherlock's mind and his breath caught. Pressing a hand to his chest, he breathed deeply a few times before straightening his spine. Jesus, the first time seeing each other in almost three years and they were already fighting. But it was worse than that; he was seeing his dead best friend and they were fighting. Sherlock wanted to meet John's anger with his own but he couldn't.

"I'm sorry, John, for all of it. For faking my death and making you watch. It was inexcusable of me," Sherlock murmured, seeing John sigh.

"Why did you have to call me? Why fake it? Why...why make me feel like a failure? Like I failed you."

Sherlock stepped forward instinctively at the hollow tone in that voice. John wouldn't look at him and he suddenly realized how badly he had wronged his friend. How could John ever think of himself as failing Sherlock? John was his guiding light. But when he looked back, he could see how John might think that. When he had died, he died believing that Sherlock was gone. That his friend had jumped off a building in front of him. Gave his best friend his last words. And those last words were essentially a lie. The content was true but the reason for the delivery was a lie. Suddenly questioning the protocol for touching an angel, Sherlock reached out and gently touched John's elbow. He relaxed fractionally when he wasn't shocked or heard divine music.

"John, you never failed me. In truth, I failed you. After I faked my suicide, I left for the continent that night. I went after Moriarty's web. To destroy it. I...I never looked back. Looking back would have reminded me of what I had lost and was missing out on. That was an error on my part. I believed you were at Baker Street, safe and having tea with Mrs. Hudson. I didn't learn of your...demise until I returned. If I had known the day it happened, I would have searched for you. I would have found you and ensured you had care before leaving. I would have done anything and everything I could."

A tear escaped as he stared at the the elbow he gripped. A tanned hand came up to cover his and squeezed. Feeling the familiar grip brought a sob to Sherlock's lips.

"I know, Sherlock. I know you would have. But fate had something else in store for me," John replied softly.

Sherlock lifted his gaze and looked down at John. "I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry."

With a sad smile, John reached out, pulling Sherlock to him in a hug. Sherlock didn't think, wrapping his arms around John in turn and gripping tightly. He never thought he would have this again. John was warm and solid against him; he even smelled like he always had, the scent of tea and gun oil washing over him. The feathers ruffled over Sherlock's arms and hands before arching away from John's back. Sherlock looked up, watching as the wings opened to curl around them both. Feeling happy for the first time in ages, Sherlock tightened his grip around John and felt a resultant hum in response.

"So what now? You return me to London and wipe my memory?" Sherlock asked lightly when he released his grip and stepped back.

"Wipe your memory? Why would I do that?" John questioned, raising his eyebrows.

Sherlock gestured to their surroundings and then finally at John's wings. "It's not likely you want the knowledge of the existence of angels floating about."

"I know you, Sherlock, you're not going to tell anyone about seeing me."

The genius grimaced and glanced away. "Am I ever going to see you again? Or is this it?"

John sighed and looked at his friend. Reaching out, he carefully pushed back a stray dark curl and brushed his fingers over Sherlock's forehead. When he was alive, he probably would have refrained from doing something so intimate between mates. But now? After witnessing how torn up Sherlock was over his death and the blatant wrongness of it, John knew how much they had cared for each other. Stepping closer, he cradled Sherlock's head in his hands and pulled the genius down so they could touch foreheads. Sherlock reached for John's elbows and gripped tightly as his eyelids slid shut.

"I will always be with you, Sherlock. Even when you cannot see me, know that I am watching over you. If you ever really need me, then call and I'll come," John said softly before taking a deep breath and straightening. "But only if it's life or death. Not like it used to be when you faked an emergency just to get me to bring you a pen."

Sherlock's hands came up to cover John's where they held his face. Feeling the warmth of the touch reminded him of everything he had lost. Given more time, he could have seen starting some sort of relationship with John. Exploring the possibilities of a flourishing romance between flatmates. But now he realized the truth of the matter. Yes, he loved John Watson but he wasn't in love with him.

"Philia," Sherlock breathed as he looked at John.

"Philia?"

"One of the six types of love that the ancient Greeks taught. Philia was the love of deep, abiding friendship. The sort of love born on the battlefield between brothers in arms. Our battlefield was London and we sacrificed for each other," Sherlock murmured and saw the growing smile on John.

"Is that so? Well, I love you too, Sherlock."

It sounded like John was teasing him but Sherlock knew better. He could see the glimmer of tears in John's eyes. He was right though. What John and he had was better than romantic love. This was knowing that they had each other's back no matter what. "I miss you, John."

John pulled Sherlock's head lower and gently kissed him on his forehead. "I miss you too. Now take a deep breath."

Without questioning or even thinking about it, Sherlock did. The next breath finding him submerged in cold water again, freezing for a moment while his brain tried to catch up. Jerking back to himself, he kicked hard and eventually broke the surface. The lights of a darkened London greeted him as he shook the wet hair from his eyes. Gasping for air, he kicked weakly towards the nearest shore and the safety it offered. Tiring as he neared the dock, he was startled when a hand grabbed his and started pulling him up onto a dry surface.

"Easy there, mate," a calm voice reached his ears as he collapsed on the dock wheezing.

Something warm settled over him and he dragged his eyelids open to look at his savior. Older man, early sixties, good samaritan, taking a walk, saw him from the walking path.

"Are you okay son?" he asked, tucking the dry jacket around his shoulders.

"Lestrade...Greg Lestrade...Detective Inspector...call him...MET," Sherlock gasped as the shivers started.

He didn't listen to the phone call, too busy saving the entire interaction he just had with John. John, his angel. Well, maybe not his angel but definitely an angel that was keeping a watch over him. He dozed for a while, shivering and jerking as the good samaritan rubbed his arms. Bright lights started flickering behind his closed eyelids and he slowly opened them to see a pair of familiar shoes running towards him.

"Sherlock!"

Ah...there's Lestrade with a torch and the orange monstrosity of a blanket, Sherlock thought with perverse amusement. A weak chuckle escaped his numb lips as Lestrade fell to his knees beside him. The jacket was removed and returned to its owner, before Lestrade stripped off his wet shirt. Tossing the ruined fabric aside, he wrapped the blanket around the shivering young man, covering him from his shoulders down to his knees. Lestrade vigorously started rubbing his arms again and Sherlock still had to chuckle.

"People...will start to...talk."

Lestrade huffed and rubbed harder. "An idiot once told me that people do little else. Can you walk?"

Sherlock evaluated his body and eventually nodded. "I'll need help getting to my feet though."

Lestrade and the good Samaritan helped get him vertical then they slowly made their way up to the street and the awaiting ambulance. He sat quietly as the paramedics checked him over. While they were doing that, he told Lestrade about Whibley and the background story leading up to her attempted drowning. He weakly smirked when he saw the snarl on Lestrade's lips as he stabbed at his mobile and gave orders to Donovan to pick the woman up. Sherlock listened mindlessly to the chattering of the paramedics and Lestrade as exhaustion started to catch up to him. He was leaning against the ambulance wall with his eyes closed when he heard the word hospital and his head jerked up.

"No!"

Two startled faces turned to look at him, Lestrade and the paramedic staring as he slowly straightened.

"No hospital. I'm fine. I just need a ride home. I can take care of myself there," he assured them and started moving to stand.

Lestrade stepped forward, grabbing Sherlock's shoulders as the younger man wobbled a bit. The paramedic looked doubtful and Lestrade turned back to Sherlock when a hand gripped his forearm.

"Please, Greg," Sherlock mumbled softly enough that Lestrade wondered if he heard him correctly.

"Is it life or death if he goes to hospital or not?" Lestrade asked and raised an eyebrow at the paramedic's hesitation.

"I have to say yes for liability issues."

Sherlock huffed and Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Alright, I'll take responsibility for him."

The hand around his forearm flexed in appreciation and a short time later Sherlock was curled up in the passenger seat of the panda car while Lestrade drove. Lestrade's mobile pinged and he pulled it out at the next red light. Glancing at the text message, he snorted before wedging it under his thigh.

"Your brother has located your mobile, coat and jacket. He'll bring everything by tomorrow. He also said he's pleased you're okay."

Sherlock grunted in reply and pulled the blanket more tightly around himself as weak shivers went through him. He was exhausted. He wanted a cup of tea and then his bed. He would have appreciated a warm shower but knew he was too tired for that. Falling asleep in the shower and possibly slipping again was high on the list of probabilities. And he expected John would let him fall and actually injure himself just out of spite for having to save him twice for the same accident. The auto slowed and Sherlock looked out the window, recognizing Baker Street. He was surprised when Lestrade actually found a parking spot for the panda. Lestrade caught his questioning look.

"What? You're an idiot if you think I'm leaving you alone for the night."

Lestrade wasn't backing down as Sherlock stared at him. Too tired to really protest, he muttered something along the lines of 'Fine' before struggling from the auto. Lestrade used his emergency key to get them into the building and shuffled Sherlock up the stairs.

"Bed or-"

"Tea. I need some tea," Sherlock muttered; without hesitating Lestrade guided Sherlock towards the two chairs in front of the fireplace.

Sherlock aimed for John's chair and sank happily into it, still wrapped in the blanket. Lestrade stepped away and grabbed the afghan, bending to tuck that around Sherlock as well. Straightening, he shrugged off his own jacket and coat, casting them aside. Walking into the kitchen, he flipped the lightswitch and started fixing two mugs of tea. Raising an eyebrow at the strange collection of things on the counter, he shrugged and filled the kettle. He had seen John make cups enough times that he knew how Sherlock took his and he strived to emulate the good Doctor. Pouring the hot water over the bags, he pushed them aside to steep and searched through the cabinets. Finding a package of biscuits, he cautiously inspected them to ensure they hadn't been used in an experiment and sighed when they looked safe. Snagging the milk, he inspected it similarly before he finished the two mugs and brought them into the sitting room. Setting his own cup aside, he moved to hand Sherlock's his tea and the biscuits.

"I hope this mug was okay. There's some dirt and grass on the bottom but the inside looked okay other than the feather," he muttered, glancing down at the mug, not seeing the look on Sherlock's face.

Lestrade did notice that the hand that had been reaching for the mug had stopped halfway. Looking up at the younger man, Lestrade suddenly stepped closer and gripped Sherlock's shoulder with his free hand.

"Sherlock? You okay? Looks like you've seen a ghost."

For a brief moment, Sherlock hysterically felt that he had. It was John's RAMC mug. The exact mug he had left at John's grave earlier that day. It had somehow made it back to the flat. Slowly, he wrapped his hand around the warmed mug and pulled it towards him. If ever he doubted himself or thought that he had imagined his conversation with John, this served to put all those doubts to rest. John was an angel.

"Feather? What feather?" he suddenly asked, remembering Lestrade's other words.

Reaching into his pocket, Lestrade withdrew a large feather and handed it to Sherlock. The feather was a little over twenty centimeters long and was mostly tan colored with some flecks of white. The same coloring as John's wings. Smiling briefly, Sherlock held the hollow stalk between his fingers and turned the feather so the delicate bristles brushed against his palm and ran his thumb down the soft material. Sipping from his mug, Sherlock realized just how important these two items were to him now. His tastebuds detected salt in his tea and for a moment he was confused until he felt the moisture on his face. Tears trickled slowly down his cheeks and over his lips, he huffed a soft laugh before wiping them away with the back of the hand holding the feather.

"Sherlock...you sure you're okay?" Lestrade asked, kneeling next to the chair, looking up at the consulting detective.

"Fine, Greg. I'm just fine."

And Sherlock realized, he really was.

(!)(!)(!)

 _Six years later_

 _Sherlock rubbed his lower back to try and ease the sharp ache. He didn't move from his position though. He was peering through the microscope eyepiece, waiting for an eagerly anticipated reaction. This was his third attempt and he refused to be distracted from it again. He finally saw the first stages of the reaction starting and grabbed for his pencil to take notes. He felt his notebook but not a writing utensil._

" _Come on," he muttered but didn't remove his gaze from the reaction as he patted frantically around for something to write with._

 _He stretched his arms wide over the kitchen table, moving slowly so he didn't knock anything down._

" _Dammit," he muttered, debating between looking away or trying to remember the description of the reaction and the appearance of each stage._

 _A small clattering noise nearby made him sit up straighter. Holding his breath, he lowered his hand back to his notebook and felt a pen and pencil resting in the center of the open book. Smiling, he picked up one and started taking notes._

" _Thank you."_

(!)(!)(!)

 _Eleven years later_

 _Lestrade groaned and tried to shift out from under the weight pinning him down. The weight didn't move and he paused for a moment trying to reconstruct how he got there._

 _The last clear memory was Sherlock dragging him to the City of London Cemetery and Crematorium. The genius was raving about some ghost serial murderer and needing proof that was overlooked during the investigation. Once inside, they were looking around when Lestrade heard a loud thump from behind him. He only caught a quick glance of Sherlock crumpled on the ground before something struck his head. There was nothing after that._

 _Jesus, it was hot._

 _Hearing a groan in the vicinity of his chest, Lestrade struggled to open his eyes, eventually focusing on a mop of dark curly hair. Just beyond the dark hair was a very low lying ceiling which was dark colored but had small glowing holes. Confused, Lestrade reached out with a wobbly hand and brushed his fingers across the ceiling. His fingers came back sooty._

 _Understanding came to him in a frightening rush and his body tensed as his hands went to the body atop him._

" _Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up!" Lestrade snapped, rolling to the side to carefully shift the consulting detective to the bottom of the container._

 _Shaking the detective with one hand, Lestrade started searching for the door or access panel. The space they occupied was small for two full grown men and Lestrade knew there was no chance of standing up. Realising the area by their heads was the least dirty, he started banging his fists against the smooth inside._

" _Open up!"_

 _A groan sounded next to him, "Lestrade...what?"_

 _Lestrade looked over at Sherlock who was blinking sluggishly, trying to make sense of the current situation._

" _Help me, Sherlock! He's going to cremate us!" he snapped and felt the other man move sharply at the words._

" _I don't have reception in here," Sherlock muttered and quickly pocketed his mobile before feeling along the edges of the access panel._

 _It was getting hotter and sweat was starting to drip off the nose and chins of both men. It was getting harder to breath as all the moisture in the air was removed. Lestrade rested his head against the door, feeling lightheaded from the heat._

" _Sherl…"_

 _Sherlock turned to look at Lestrade but something else caught his eye. At the opposite end of the chamber, flames shot out from the walls and started racing up towards them. He grabbed at Lestrade's shoulder and mentally screamed for the one person he could always count on._

'John!'

 _The next moment he coughed and sucked in a lungful of cool air, feeling rain strike his face. Continuing to cough, he rolled over and pressed his face against the cool, wet grass. Looking up weakly, he saw Lestrade a short distance away also coughing. Faint curls of steam drifted up from his coat and skin but he was alive. They both were. Glancing around, Sherlock saw a small movement and focused._

 _At the edge of the grassy area was a dove, perched atop a statue of a patron saint. It was a statue of Saint Luke the Evangelist, patron saint of artists, physicians, surgeons, students and butchers. Physicians and surgeons. Pressing his forehead against the grass, he huffed before slowly climbing to his feet._

" _Bloody show off," he muttered, trying to come up with what he was going to tell Lestrade._

(!)(!)(!)

 _Nineteen years later_

 _Sherlock stood in the quiet foyer and looked around the darkened house. He hadn't been in Mycroft's home often; his visits there few and far between. Sighing, he set aside his insulated coffee cup and shrugged off his Belstaff and jacket. He would be here for a few hours. Picking the coffee back up, he took a deep breath and moved. It wouldn't get any easier._

 _Stepping into the sitting room, he caught sight of himself in the mirror over the fireplace. There were more lines on his face. His hair was starting to thin slightly. He saw the proof of his aging and he wasn't happy about it. Looking away, his gaze landed on a large bookshelf with various knick knacks and pictures scattered among the books. Moving slowly, he neared the bookcase and looked over the framed photographs. There was one of the two of them as children. Nine and sixteen if Sherlock remembered correctly. There was another, it looked like a screenshot from a CCTV video, of a time when Lestrade was yelling at Sherlock at a crime scene. His finger was out and pointing at Sherlock while the consulting detective was obviously pouting. His lips twitched into a small smile as he moved onto the next photograph. There were Mycroft and John staring each other down with Sherlock seated in the background. Despite the obvious difference in height, John was clearly the dominant figure in the picture. Sherlock sighed and glanced over the other pictures. They were all of people that were close to the Holmes brothers; Molly, Mrs. Hudson, a few of Sherlock's homeless network. All people that helped Mycroft look after his little brother._

" _John, I wish you were here," he murmured, not expecting a response._

 _Behind him, something clattered on the hardwood, causing him to spin in surprise. The umbrella stand was on its side, rocking side to side slowly. Three umbrellas had slid out of the stand and across the floor. Putting aside his coffee again, Sherlock knelt to collect the stray umbrellas. Pulling one to him, something fluttered out, slowly drifting until it landed on the toe of his shoe. His breathe caught in his throat when he got a good view of the piece of paper. It was a small note with medical instructions...written in John's handwriting. Picking it up, he looked between the note and the umbrella before smiling._

" _Thank you, John. Take care of him for me."_

(!)(!)(!)

Thank you to everyone who has read and commented on this story. There is only one chapter left after this. Thanks again to everyone.


	5. Chapter 5

Tissue box warning for the following chapter

Thirty-one years later

Lestrade pushed open the door to the hospital room. It was quiet as he slowly moved to the chair already waiting near the bed. The figure in the bed seemed a shadow of his former self. Dark hair now streaked with silver strands; his muscle tone diminished with the accumulation of years. The man lay still and silent, turned slightly on his side with his hands curled in his lap. Despite the nasal prongs providing supplemental oxygen, Lestrade could still hear audible wheezing.

Lowering himself slowly with a near silent groan, he set aside his cane and looked back towards the bed. Blue-green eyes peered back at him and he flinched in surprise before releasing a soft huff of laughter.

"Never could sneak up on you."

"Hello, Greg," Sherlock murmured, shifting himself in the bed.

The two men stared at each other for a moment.

"What do the doctors say?"

Sherlock shrugged before speaking. "My youthful dabbles...in drugs...have weakened my...heart. Not long...now...they expect."

"Never really expected you and I to die of old age honestly," Lestrade said, looking at his wrinkled hand, dotted with age spots.

"I tried my...best, not to," Sherlock commented and giggled softly.

He curled his hands in tighter against his abdomen, glancing up at the heart monitor. He sighed before slumping against his pillow and looking around the room. They didn't have to talk about it. Lestrade had been there for all the admittances; he knew how weak Sherlock's heart was.

"Any regrets?" Lestrade asked suddenly causing Sherlock to look over at him.

"What?"

"Do you have any regrets? You've led a pretty interesting life. Met unique people. Been to exotic locations and seen so much. Any regrets in all of that?" he asked, watching as Sherlock's gaze drifted to his lap.

"A few," he whispered, lifting something from his lap and setting it on the nearby over-bed table.

Lestrade stared at the mug, recognizing it as John's old RAMC mug. Looking back at Sherlock, he watched the man's gaze drift around the room again while he twirled something with his finger tips.

"Sherlock?"

The genius looked down at his hands and smiled briefly, before lifting the object for Lestrade to see. It was a tan and white feather, worn and missing small parts along its length. Sherlock's fingers ran over it with loving familiarity as his hands rested atop the blanket.

"I miss him."

Lestrade gazed at the mug and it wasn't much of a leap to figure out who he was talking about. How the feather figured into it, he wasn't sure, but he decided to go with it.

"He was a good man. You know, that first case you brought John in on with you? I told him you were a great man, and maybe, if we were very lucky, you could even be a good one. Never knew he would be the one to do it," Lestrade said and dammit, he could still get teary eyed when he thought about their history after so many years.

"He had a...lot of hidden lay...layers," Sherlock panted, grimacing as he pressed his free hand against his chest.

A quick glance at the heart monitor showed Lestrade the rhythm of the failing heart. Scooting closer to the bed and sitting on the edge of his chair, Lestrade reached out, gripping the wrist of the hand holding the feather. A few moments and grimaces later, the monitor showed a steady but ever weakening heart beat. The hand at his chest fell to his lap as Sherlock laid his head back and panted softly.

"Sherlock, d-"

Sherlock seemed to know what Lestrade was about to ask. Just like he always did. "I have...a do...not re-..resuscitate...order, Greg."

The retired detective inspector faltered. The emotional part of him wanted to scream and yell that Sherlock couldn't just give up. The more logical, sensible part replied that it was his choice and he had been through enough. Mrs. Hudson has passed away years ago. Sherlock's parents and sibling were dead. Greg was his only 'friend' still alive. Oh, he had his associates and contacts, but none could claim the privileged title of _friend_.

"I wish he was here."

"Who?" Lestrade asked even as he saw the blue-green eyes shift to look at the RAMC mug.

"John?" A slight nod confirmed Lestrade's guess.

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. He had never known Sherlock to lose track of the present. Well, other than when he was high out of his mind but that was ages ago. Sober ever since meeting John for the first time, he knew he was on good drugs currently but not enough for his mental capacity to suffer.

"Oh don't...look at me like...that, Greg. I hav-...haven't lost my...mind," Sherlock grumbled weakly.

"John's dead, Sherlock. Has been for some time now."

"Dead...but not...gone." Sherlock's eyelids drooped, fluttering slightly before opening them again. "In my...will. I've...de-...demanded to be...placed next...to him. My old...plot. The fake...one."

Lestrade saw he was visibly getting weaker. Tears prickled in his eyes, as he realized the end was near for the _great_ Sherlock Holmes. Giving the cool wrist a reassuring squeeze, he took a deep breath, vowing to hold back the tears until it was done.

"I'll make sure it happens, Sherlock."

A weak, sad grin was his only reply.

"I hoped...he would ha-...have come."

"Yeah, well, you know me. I invaded Afghanistan so I just have to make an entrance."

Lestrade gasped, twisting in his seat to see who may have snuck in without him hearing. The sight that met his eyes made him frantically wonder if he was really the one in the hospital bed hallucinating. Against the wall stood a figure he hadn't seen in some thirty-nine years. A figure that looked as youthful and fit as that first meeting. John wore a pair of jeans and his cream jumper. A set large wings, dappled with tan, beige and white, arched over his shoulders though pulled in tightly to avoid hitting any of the medical equipment. His blue eyes sparkled when he looked over at Lestrade, his smile growing upon seeing the shocked expression.

"Hey Greg," John said softly, moving to the other side of Sherlock's bed.

"John. You're-"

"Yeah. An angel. You all used to say I was a saint to put up with him. Fell a little short of the sainthood line though," John commented, gesturing towards Sherlock.

Sherlock grumbled but anyone could see the fondness in his eyes as he watched the angel.

"Took you...long...enough."

The answering smirk was all John Watson down to a T, prompting Lestrade to blink in surprise; he never expected to see the man again. John braced one hand on the bed by Sherlock's shoulder and his other hand rested atop Sherlock's chest.

"Just like when we used to run around London chasing criminals, and I was always dumped with the paperwork to finish. I knew you wouldn't do it, so I did, sort of...expedited matters."

Sherlock giggled briefly as his body seemed to grow heavier and sink into the bed.

"Is the reaper...coming? I...have some...questions...fo-...for it."

John smiled, all but ignoring the silent man opposite the bed from him.

"I've called in a favor; you can talk to it later. Get up, Sherlock. It's time to go," John said as he straightened.

Plucking the worn feather from the loosening grip, John looked at it for a moment and Greg watched as the feather shimmered and filled out until it looked like the ones gracing John's back. Grinning, John glanced at Greg before reaching across the bed and slipping the feather into the mug.

"Go? I...can barely...sit up," Sherlock muttered with an eye roll. "Idiot."

John laughed as he took hold of one of Sherlock's hands, tugging at him.

"Get up, you lazy git."

Greg watched in amazement as Sherlock seemed to separate from the body still in the bed. The figure that slid off the bed was once again young. Hair dark like a raven, body firm and toned, skin still pale but healthy. His Belstaff sat regally on his shoulders and Lestrade could see the suit coat and burgundy shirt underneath. Now he had a new addition to his imposing look: a pair of jet black wings, streaked with silver, graced his back. In the background, Greg heard the heart monitor start to slow as a small alarm went off at the nurse's station.

Sherlock looked down at his new figure and ruffled the feathers of his wings in amazement, his eyes sparkling with amusement and laughter. Looking from John to Greg, his face dropped slightly and he rounded the bed with long strides. Squatting beside Greg, Sherlock reached out and gripped the man's elbow.

"Greg...thank you. For everything. My life would have been much poorer and far shorter if you hadn't dragged my sorry arse away from the drugs. Ever since then, you've always had my back, especially when I needed it the most. Thank you," Sherlock said quietly before standing.

Sherlock reached over Greg and picked up the mug with the feather sticking out of it. Looking from the mug to John, the former doctor nodded before Sherlock reached behind himself and plucked one of his own feathers. He grimaced slightly at the pain before placing it alongside the tan colored feather and handing the mug to Greg.

"For safe keeping and remembering."

John nudged Sherlock away as he looked down at the other man.

"Thank you for looking after him when I couldn't be there, Greg. You're a good man. I'll be seeing you around." John giggled at Greg's horrified expression. "But not for a long while. You've still got a lot of living to do, Gregory Lestrade."

"John, lets go. I want to talk with Jimmy Hoffa. Oh! How about Henry Howard Holmes! I've always been interested in talking with him," Sherlock said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Let's just take it-hey!"

Sherlock had already disappeared and John took a step towards where the genius last stood.

"Sherlock! Wait up!"

With a flare and a snap of his wings, John also disappeared, leaving Greg with the heart monitor wailing and a doctor and nurse standing quietly in the doorway. Greg knew it was probably in poor taste, but he laughed out loud as the doctor came in to declare time of death. Greg took the mug with its precious pair of feathers and left the room, not even looking back at the shell of a body. He preferred to remember Sherlock and John as they always were. Sherlock leading the way and John yelling at him, faithfully following to guard his back.

(!)(!)(!)

Greg sat back in his chair, listening to his children and grandchildren cleaning up after dinner. Over his shoulder, atop a shelf with pictures of family, there were pictures of Lestrade in his uniform, pictures of Sherlock, John and him at a crime scene; and in the midst of all those pictures was a mug with two feathers sticking out of it.

"Grandpa! Grandpa! Tell us a story, please."

Greg looked down at the five year old twins. He noticed the other three children looking at him, hoping for an exciting cop story. Nodding, he then was forced to smile as a few of the kids whooped and all of them clamored for a seat around Grandpa. Settling one of the youngest ones on his lap, Greg took a deep breath before glancing over his shoulder at the mug and feathers.

"Once upon a time, there was this genius of a man. A man so smart that he scared away a lot of people. He could look at you and tell you your life story. What you had done that day, what kind of job you had, what kind of pets you lived with, what-"

"Could he tell my dog's name?"

Greg laughed. "Yes, he could do that also. But nobody understood him because he was so smart. So he was very lonely, but he thought he was fine being lonely, until one day, he met someone special. He met a soldier who was also a doctor. This man was brave and loyal and thought the genius was brilliant for seeing so much.

"Eventually their friendship became the stuff legends are told and written about. It spanned all of time and space."

"Like Doctor Who?" one of the kids gasped.

"Just like Doctor Who. But that was later on. There are bunches and bunches of stories about their antics and about their friendship. Every person in London knew about these two."

One of the boys nudged his sibling. "This is going to be a good one. I can tell."

Greg smiled, looking over his shoulder again at the mug and feathers. "It certainly was a good one."

(!)(!)(!)

Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

~Mary Elizabeth Frye

(!)(!)(!)(!)(!)(!)(!)(!)(!)

Did I move you to tears? I would really like to know where the emotions got to you. For me, it was when John takes the old feather that Sherlock had held onto for so many years and freshens it up.

Thank you to everyone that has read and commented and liked the story. Many thanks to MyFirstistheFourth for proofing and providing many hilarious responses to this story. My favorite still being: Damn you! Damn feathers and cups and fucking angels.


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